Tales from the Grid
by THECURSOR
Summary: Small snippets of stories from before, after, and during Tron Legacy. BAD LANGUAGE IN CHAPTER 4
1. Patrol

**Tales from the Grid**

By THECURSOR

I own nothing

**Patrol**

System Monitor Crix had patrolled the Grid for his entire operational life, just like his parent programs and their parent programs before them. There was a family legend that his parent programs were the direct descendents of the very first anti-virals written and installed by Flynn himself. No one knew more about the keeping the Grid secure than Crix. No one. Not CLU, not anybody.

So when he saw a defunct program driving a vintage, custom programmed light cycle in the worst sector of the city, Crix took notice.

"Where did you get it?" He said, squeezing the Defunct's smelly arm.

"I told'ya," The Defunct said, "it t'was gifted ta me."

"You seriously mean to tell me that somebody pulled over in an alley and tossed you the operating baton to a vintage second generation light cycle?" Crix laughed, a low threatening chuckle, and the five or six deputy officers laughed with him, "Man, why can't I be that lucky?"

"It's truth."

Crix snarled in disgust at the loathsome creature. When a program's functions are either removed or reassigned, they became defunct. Loathsome and desperate, they usually begged for spare data on the streets, mumbling about protocols that no one ever cared about.

But sometimes… sometimes they got so hungry for data that they went rogue. They'd do horrible things, even de-rez entire program families, just for a few pixels. Somewhere out there was a program without a lightcycle and if this defunct was responsible…

"Monitor Crix?"

"Not now!" Crix said with a snap, he regretted his tone almost immediately. The junior deputy was standing in the doorway of the interrogation room with a horrified look on his face. The kid was barely two uploads old. "I mean, what is it?" He muttered.

"System Security is here," The rookie whispered, "They want to see the defunct."

The entire room slowed to a crawl. Crix and his deputies look at one another with unmasked concern. What did CLU'S guards want with a lowly defunct? "Tell them to go away,"

"They told me you'd say that, they said they want to see you anyway."

Motioned to his deputies and leaned into their ear, "Take him to the back door, unlock the firewall and wait for me to come get you." Crix pointed a single finger between the Defunct's glazed eyes, "I think you're scum but nobody deserves a visit from System Security, we'll continue this later."

And then he went, moving through the crowed hallways of Anti-Viral Security, past dozens of programs and protocols until he reached the menacing glares of Jarvis and the six sentries that traveled with him.

That sent a wave of disgust through Crix's coding. Jarvis didn't actually need the protection of six sentry programs but he used them anyway, just so he could look important.

This was just one of the many little improvements that CLU's regime had introduced over the cycles.

And there was nothing Crix could do about it.

"Salutations, Programs, how can I help you?" He tried to sound as polite as possible, burying his contempt with duty and etiquette.

"You're holding a defunct program."

"Perhaps, I'm holding a lot of programs tonight."

Jarvis snarled at Crix's obvious petulance and he imagined a small, furry creature. A hideous rodent described in data files on the human world. What were they called…

"You and the other System Monitors have funny ideas about the way things are supposed to be. Your functions don't align with our mighty leader's glorious vision." Jarvis leaned very close to Crix and started whispering in a low threatening voice, "In fact, I continue to hear rumors that you and your men are using your lofty position to spread a system wide revolt."

Crix continued to smile, continued to hide how much he wanted to strangle Jarvis and de-rez every Black Guard on the Grid. "I assure you, sir, that the System Monitors are only interested in peace and justice for all programs."

Jarvis scoffed.

* * *

When Crix had a spare moment he slipped away, returning to the back firewall where his deputies were still hiding, still holding the nervous little Defunct.

It was against his nature to release any program from quarantine. To Crix, once you crossed the line, you served your time. No questions asked. But these days, things were different.

"Let him go." He ignored the brief swell of pride as his men almost refused the order. Good boys, he thought, never let a perp walk away. But still, orders were orders. "I said cut him loose."

The senior deputy removed the Defuncts restraints while his junior officer opened the back firewall. Things had gone very wrong in the Grid if a System Monitor felt more loyalty to some defunct dirtbag than System Security. But things had been that way for a long time.

And if they were ever going to change, programs like Crix were going to have to pick a side.

If he got caught, Jarvis would have him repurposed or worse, remove his functions and turned defunct. It didn't matter. Anything was better than CLU's madness.

"It was a gift." The Defunct said as he hesitantly stepped through the firewall, "I swear."

"I know kid," Crix muttered, "Cause today is your lucky day."

"It was a User." The Defunct said as he walked back onto the Grid, "I saw him. With my own two eyes. A User, they're real."

Crix closed the firewall.

The End


	2. Sustenance

**Sustenance**

Quorra didn't really understand why Sam was making such a big deal out of this. They had food on the Grid.

It wasn't really food though, really it was data streams packed into a food like shape but to Quorra it was basically the same thing. Data kept programs alive, food kept Users alive. The principle was exactly the same.

"No," Sam had insisted, "This is totally different."

So she had humored him. She got in the car (it was nowhere near as fast as her old roadster) and sat patiently for fifteen minutes until their car came to the head of the line. Fifteen minutes to Quorra was nearly an eternity and she demanded to know what was so important.

Finally they received the bag filled with the strange, paper wrapped objects and Sam eagerly handed her one of them. "Unwrap it and dig in."

She did and the sensation was almost unbelievable. How could one object taste so delicious? Quorra had to grip the side of the car to keep from fainting.

This was her first, but not last, In and Out Cheeseburger.


	3. Sensation

**A/N**: VERY BAD LANGUAGE IN THIS ONE

**Sensation **

Sam took Quorra to her first rave on Tuesday, the next morning on Wednesday he forbid her from ever touching alcohol again.

She spent the whole evening running through the club like a crazy person, jumping up and down to the music. She drank whatever they put in front of her, then went to the bathroom with some socialites (Sam was almost positive they fed her ecstasy) and then she kept right on dancing.

Every guy in the club tried to hit on her. Every woman wanted fashion tips.

The DJs even let her spin a few records (electronica of course).

But by the end of the night, when the bartenders cried out last call, poor Quorra was drunk, stoned, and all over him. Her body kept pressing against Sam in all the wrong places and scent of her perfume filled his nose. It was time to take her home before He did something stupid.

Her speech was slurred and he knew there was only a sliver of consciousness left in her brain, still when the cab door closed behind them Quorra lifted her head.

"More party?" She whispered in his ear.

"No, I think you're all partied out."

"You're no fun."

Then she smuggled up against him like a sleeping cat. Sam couldn't help but admit that he liked how warm she felt in his arms. Quorra looked so innocent when she slept, like an angel.

"I'll suck your cock if you take me to another party."

Sam started coughing and the taxi driver couldn't stop laughing. "Where…what…"

Quorra shrugged as she leaned closer to Sam's chest, "Those nice girls with the funny blue pills told me that if you tell a man you'll suck his cock, he'll do anything you want."

"Do you even know what that means?"

"No."

"Then don't say it!"

"Kay." She whispered as she fell back to sleep as Sam made a mental note to ban alcohol for all computer born cyber girls. Then he felt her nuzzling his neck and almost changed his mind.

"Where to buddy?" The Taxi driver asked.

"My bathroom," Sam replied, "For a cold shower."


	4. Perfection

**Perfection**

There was a circuit failure in Sector 9980234. It wasn't because an equipment or programming error or even a virus. It was because two young ISOs wanted to examine what made the lights blink in the street sign. No one was hurt during the incident and the system back ups rerouted all data to the neighboring circuits.

But to CLU, it was a nightmare.

The system was designed to be perfect and account for every possible contingency. All programs obeyed the system because that was what they were supposed to do. Nothing was out of place and nothing was beyond the systems reach.

Yet the ISOs openly flouted CLU's system and caused utter havoc everywhere they went. Programs stopped functioning properly around the ISOs, Protocols failed to perform around them. They needed to be removed from circulation, to be quarantined! And when he tried to raise his concerns to his User, Flynn just laughed. "A little chaos is a good thing, CLU."

The final straw came when Flynn started building the tower.

ISO Tower was a massive, sprawling habitation block built by the ISOs out of spare data with Flynn's approval.

And nobody bothered to tell CLU what they were doing. They just built it on spare grid space that CLU had set aside for a new lightway.

CLU hated the tower, hated how organic it looked, how imperfect it was.

Something had to be done.


	5. Faith

A/N- I was stuck on how to continue the story until I saw a chapter in the "Art of Tron Legacy" book that had a bunch of unnamed character sketches of various unnamed citizens from all walks of life in Tron City. I decided that every one of them deserves their own chapter. For instance, this chapter was inspired by a design for a female character with a shaved head and long robes.

I decided to eliminate a chapter; it just didn't fit in with the story anymore.

**Faith**

Iska removed her hood, allowing the light to gleam off her pale skin. Then she spoke the words that she memorized during days now long past: "Glory to the Users, the ones who wrote our sacred code." She paused because if she had been in the I/O Tower this would be the place for the gathered multitudes to repeat her words back to her.

But she was not in the I/O Tower and there were no multitudes. Instead she was standing on a street corner as the city's morning traffic moved along at the speed of light. The programs who even bothered to notice Iska shook their heads in sadness as they mistook her words for the mad ramblings of a defunct program.

When CLU overthrew the User, he outlawed the old religion. Many of the once beautiful I/O towers that allowed the User to communicate with his faithful were torn down to make way for the Game Grid. While the once proud priests and priestess that had delivered the voice of the User to his people were either derezzed or, like Iska, made defunct and broken.

Those who were smart stayed alive and ignored the old ways; those who were desperate remained broken in the streets, begging for energy and data.

And those who were faithful, like Iska, made the ultimate sacrifice for their cause.

She spoke again, getting down on her knees in the middle of the street as the traffic started to slow around her. Eyes drew to Iska as she continued to pray loudly and proudly to any who would listen. "Blessed are those who wrote our code. Blessed are those who gave us the freedom from evil."

"Blessed are the Users." She shouted as she raised her hands to show she was unarmed, "Blessed are those who love us and let us be free."

Iska did not hear the guards approach behind her but she knew they were there. She was causing a disruption in the perfection that was CLU and nothing was permitted to ruin perfection. She looked up at the faceless masks of the Sentries and smiled politely.

These programs were not her enemies; they were merely performing their function just like she was performing her function. Iska had no malice for these men.

But that did not mean she would surrender. Iska continued shouting, continued praying. Even as the guards stepped forward with their light sticks pointed towards her abdomen.

The Leader stepped forward, tilting his head in confusion for a moment before performing his duty. "Program: You are in violation of System Code 112897654." He said, his voice resonating with an otherworldly bass, "Failure to desist violation will result in instant de-resolution."

Iska took a deep breath and rose to her feet. When she was eye level with the Squad Leader, she released her breath in one final burst of rebellion. "BLESSED ARE THE-"

She did not finish the sentence. Before her lips formed the word 'Users' the guards stabbed her. Five light sticks penetrated her body and she was dying before she even hit the ground.

"Blessed are the Users." Iska finished as the pain became unbearable. She could hear the shrieks of frightened passersby and watched with a smile as the stunned guardsmen backed quickly away. For all their programmed bravery, they were shocked into silence by the power of her commitment.

The world seemed to turn into a blinding ball of light around Iska as she derezzed. Pieces of her fell away and became energy. For a brief moment she could swear she saw a green place with warm light and happy sounds.

Then Iska died...


	6. Defunct

A/N-As I mentioned in the previous chapter, these chapters are inspired by the Tron art book. This character in particular was created because I noticed that one of the designs for one of CLU's supporters also kind of resembled a low class rebel design from a previous page. I wondered, "What if that's the same guy just at two different stages of his life."

A/N 2- Multiple Tron sources say that "food" for programs is Energy. I've decided that if food =Energy, then money=Data. A Program performs it's function, it gets paid bits and bytes of Data. If your program becomes useless or "Defunct", you can't earn Data.

**Defunct**

Zero couldn't believe this was happening.

How could they think…why would they ever…? Zero didn't understand how this could've happened; he was only a few cycles old. He was young, vibrate, top of the line.

How could they make him Defunct?

He started to hyperventilate, it wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair. He ran his fingers through the militant haircut of the System's elite class. The black locks that were shaved so close to his head were now caked with perspiration, which slowly slid down the pale skin of his forehead. Distantly he could hear Jarvis' voice as it carefully explained why he was being Defunctioned. "We've just found a more efficient method of dispersing our data collection reports."

Jarvis tried to sound kind…and yet to Zero he just sounded smug, "Now I know you have plenty of savings. I read at least 600 kilobytes of data in your account and that should sustain you for quite a long time. " Jarvis' voice was quickly becoming a shadow of sympathy, a mockery of genuine emotion. "Of course there are fees to be paid. The Defunction Process is quite expensive and it wouldn't be fair to the public if we shouldered that burden alone."

"But…how…what is it going to-"

"Oh the cost of the Defunction Process isn't so bad. I'd say…half your current assets should be enough."

"Half?"

"Well I wouldn't worry too much about that," Jarvis said as he patted Zero on the shoulder, then pushed a small infopad towards the bereaved program. "Now if you'll just sign this we can begin the relocation process."

"But my home-"

"Is reserved for functioning programs, I'm afraid."

Zero tried desperately to stay on his feet, his whole world was ending. He was defunct, nearly broke, and now homeless. He started crying now, openly sobbing. "But where will I live?"

"Don't worry, I have a nice place all picked out."

* * *

Ask a person to picture hell on earth and they'll describe various warzones or poorly governed third world nations. Ask a program the same question and they'll describe Habitation Block DD60.

In a world where everything was built within a system, nonconformity could never be tolerated. So if you stepped out of line, if you appeared even the least bit disloyal to the CLU regime, you were relocated to one of the dozens of lower level habitation blocks along the eastern side of the city. Ramshackle buildings lined the streets; each one was over crowded with defunct or damaged programs and regular patrols of brutal guards roamed every few hours, delivering beats or threats totally at random.

And DD60 was the worst Hab Block on the entire Grid.

Zero clutched his belongings tightly to his chest as he stared up at the endless length of dirty, diseased building now in front of him. This was his life now.


End file.
